Florence made a powerful effort, and spoke, in her usual tone: 

“I was foolish to give way to my feelings, even for a moment—­my father is well.”  She paused, and then added, as if painfully, “But, oh! he is almost penniless!”

“Penniless!” echoed Mary, as though she could not comprehend her cousin’s meaning.

“Yes, Mary, he has been very unfortunate in his speculations, obliged to sell our plantation and negroes, and now, he says, ’a few paltry thousands only remain;’ but, oh! that is not the worst; I wish it were, he has sold out everything, broken every tie, and will be here this evening on his way to Texas.  He writes that I must be ready to accompany him to-morrow night.”

She paused, as if unwilling to add something which must be told, and looked sadly at her cousin.

Mary understood the glance.

“Florry, there is something in the letter relating to myself, which you withhold for fear of giving me pain:  the sooner I learn it the better.”

“Mary, here is a letter inclosed for you; but first hear what my father says,” and hurriedly she read as follows:  ...  “With regard to Mary, it cannot be expected that she should wish to accompany us on our rugged path, and bitterly, bitterly do I regret our separation.  Her paternal uncle, now in affluence, has often expressed a desire to have her with him, and, since my misfortunes, has written me, offering her a home in his family.  Every luxury and advantage afforded by wealth can still be hers.  Did I not feel that she would be benefited by this separation, nothing could induce me to part with her, but, under existing circumstances, I can consent to give her up.”

Florence flung the letter from her as she concluded, and approaching her cousin, clasped her arms fondly about her.  Mary had covered her face with her hands, and the tears glistened on her slender fingers.

“Oh, Florry, you don’t know how pained and hurt I am, that uncle should think I could be so ungrateful as to forget, in the moment of adversity, his unvaried kindness for six long years.  Oh! it is cruel in him to judge me so harshly,” and she sobbed aloud.

“I will not be left, I will go with him, that is if—­if—­Florry, tell me candidly, do you think he has any other reason for not taking me, except my fancied dislike to leaving this place—­tell me?”

“No, dear Mary; if he thought you preferred going with us, no power on earth could induce him to leave you.”

Mary placed her hand in her cousin’s, and murmured,

“Florry, I will go with you; your home shall be my home, and your sorrows my sorrows.”

A flash of joy irradiated Florence’s pale face as she returned her cousin’s warm embrace.

“With you, Mary, to comfort and assist me, I fear nothing; but you have not yet read your uncle’s letter, perhaps its contents may influence your decision.”

Mary perused it in silence, and then put it in her cousin’s hand, while the tears rolled over her cheeks.